


With Every Step, Another Stumble

by vanityofvanities



Series: Alphabet Prompts [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angsty Porcupine Fenris, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fenris POV, Hawke Family Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Third-person Subjective Narration, UST, act one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanityofvanities/pseuds/vanityofvanities
Summary: Fenris is ambushed on his way home from the Hanged Man and reluctantly goes to Hawke for some healing. Sexual tension inevitably follows.Fenris’ first mistake was that he had allowed himself to get swept up into another mage’s nonsense. Granted, Hawke’s nonsense was a different sort altogether from the kind he had witnessed in Tevinter, but it was chaotic nonetheless and did tend to come hand-in-hand with general mayhem and a good deal of property damage.





	With Every Step, Another Stumble

**Author's Note:**

> It’s early Act One, so I’ve made this Fenris particularly prickly. More fun that way.

Fenris’ first mistake was that he had allowed himself to get swept up into another mage’s nonsense. Granted, Hawke’s nonsense was a different sort altogether from the kind he had witnessed in Tevinter, but it was chaotic nonetheless and did tend to come hand-in-hand with general mayhem and a good deal of property damage. Fenris was beginning to suspect, however, that that chaos wasn’t so much a direct result of Hawke being a mage and was more a consequence of Hawke being, well… Hawke.

And Hawke, for whatever reason, simply did not seem to have the ability to leave well enough alone. Fenris had yet to see the mage walk past some apparently distressed citizen, or some scrap of paper pinned to a noticeboard, or some unopened and unassuming crate, without prying and sticking his long, pointed nose in where it didn’t belong.

It was possible that that tendency to offer assistance wherever it was needed was an admirable one. But devoting time and energy to the consideration of Hawke’s potential merits was just the sort of mage-related nonsense that had been costing Fenris his sleep of late.

However, it didn’t require a particularly taxing amount of consideration to determine that there was a certain degree of idiocy in risking one’s life performing what amounted to errands for the sake of complete strangers.

The complete stranger, in this case, was a slick-haired merchant Hawke had happened upon while perusing the wares on display in the Gallows. Fenris couldn’t quite recall the man’s name, but he hoped that the ironbark was damn well worth the effort it had cost. A massive hulk of an ogre had charged Hawke while he’d been collecting it, sending him careening into a craggy outcropping upon which he’d bashed his moronic head and then immediately lost consciousness. The darkspawn probably would have devoured him then and there had Fenris not been present to intervene.

That possibility didn’t even seem to occur to Hawke, however, when Fenris was finally able to shake him back to consciousness several long moments after the fighting had ended. He’d actually had the nerve to laugh, after going through the whole elaborate production of dazedly fluttering the dark fans of his cow-like eyelashes, of course. The laughter promptly gave way to a choked-off groan, however, as the slight movement of Hawke’s ribcage applied the wrong sort of pressure to some organ or other that had been rendered a bit delicate by combat.

Fenris couldn’t decide if it was nobility or foolishness that prompted Hawke to ask whether everyone else was all right before he’d even managed to pull his own battered body off the sand. Fenris didn’t have the energy left to contemplate it.

It was a lucky thing that they’d had enough potions and poultices squirreled away to ensure that Hawke wouldn’t just keel over on their journey back to the city. The other mage, Anders, did heal the majority of Hawke’s injuries on his own, but Fenris took comfort in the knowledge that the abomination hadn’t really been necessary. Hawke would have been all right. Even without Anders.

It was almost dusk by the time they were nearing the city limits. The journey home had taken longer than usual, and that was at least partially down to Hawke. Fenris had gotten through the fight with nothing more than a lightly twisted ankle, which wasn’t ordinarily the sort of thing that he would burden the others by mentioning, but, since Hawke was making such a spectacle of soldiering on in spite of the obvious discomfort he was causing himself, it fell to Fenris to suggest they take a rest every now and again. Fenris felt ridiculous, fussing about his only faintly throbbing ankle, but if Hawke was too pig-headed to admit to needing a bit of a break, then there was no help for it, really.

By the time they’d reached the relatively level, relatively paved streets of Lowtown, Hawke had cut it out with all the involuntary wincing. Which meant, of course, that he apparently lost all memory of having been injured in the first place. The exact moment that the pain of an injury was gone, it was as if it had never happened. Truly, it was a remarkable thing to witness. Remarkable, and deeply frustrating. Hawke was incapable of grasping his own limitations or appreciating his own mortality. The unfailing hubris of mages.

Fenris wasn’t surprised when Hawke suggested that they celebrate their successful mission with a few pints at the Hanged Man. The man was indefatigable. The abomination refused on account of the fact that his pet demon didn’t care for drink, but Varric accepted, which was to be expected, given that he lived just above the tavern.

And then Hawke had looked at Fenris with a hopeful sort of smile that had caught Fenris entirely off-guard. “Fenris?” he’d asked, like he was eager for the answer. And his honey-brown eyes were guileless and the relaxed tilt of his head was inviting and the idea of a having a drink was appealing, so Fenris had said:

“Seems like a fitting end to the day.”

That had been his second mistake.

It could have reasonably been called a mistake due to the smell of the Hanged Man alone. Fenris couldn’t begin to comprehend how Varric and Isabela—two beings who were, by his estimation, in possession of all five of their senses—were able to tolerate actually living in that rank hole. Though, in fairness, Fenris felt easy enough in the rundown mansion that Danarius and his men had left vacant, and that residence was certainly prone to its own assortment of off-putting odors. Sometimes home was nothing more than a place to bed down. Sometimes that was enough.

The mansion might not have been Fenris’ favorite place to while away an evening, but, if he’d had any sense in his skull, he’d have gone back to Hightown the moment night fell, rather than faffing about in a rowdy tavern with Hawke and his friends.

And they were, unmistakably, Hawke’s friends, after all. Fenris wasn’t skilled enough at self-delusion to suppose otherwise. It was true that Varric had seemed genuinely pleased when Fenris had agreed to join the pair of them for their little outing, but Fenris knew full well that for Varric, as well as for the others, it was Hawke who came first. It was understandable, natural even. Hawke had been in the city for over a year before Fenris had come to Kirkwall. And Hawke, with his relentless optimism and his unfailing desire to wheedle his way into other people’s business, did seem to have a knack for forging lasting bonds.

Fenris did not possess that same talent. Other talents, yes, but fostering friendships was not among them. He’d had no practice at it and trust, which he was given to understand was a rather important part of building any close relationship, was not something that came easily to him. It didn’t matter. Not really. Aveline was imminently civil, Varric was chummy enough, and Isabela was an amusing conversationalist. And Hawke was friendly, as he was with everyone. It was more than Fenris had expected when he’d arrived in Kirkwall. It was more than anything he’d had before. He just hoped that the day never came when whatever camaraderie the others felt with him came into conflict with their loyalty to Hawke. He knew how that would end.

Not that such an eventuality had seemed very likely when Hawke was practically bouncing along like an overlarge pup.

“It would have been nice if Anders had been able to come too, of course, but I’m glad you decided to join us,” Hawke said, chattering away at Fenris’ elbow with a cheeriness that seemed excessive even for him. Perhaps the combination of potions he’d knocked back during the fight had left him a touch addled in the head. He’d kept delivering spirited little taps to Fenris’ shoulder, continually insisting upon how much fun they’d all have together. Perhaps a side effect of elfroot was a marked increase in excitability. “I know you haven’t come for drinks with us before, but it’s a good time. Isabela will be there, if she’s not off with someone else, but it’s early for that. You always enjoy chatting with her, don’t you? It’s nice to have the chance to get to know everyone. Socially, that is. Not just while we’re being attacked by shrieks and spiders and what-have-you. You’ll like it, I think.”

“He gets it, Hawke,” Varric broke in, laughter in his voice. “It’ll be a rollicking good time. Now stop selling him something he’s already bought.”

Hawke kept selling it. He’d kept selling it until they’d reached the Hanged Man and, even then, he’d only stopped because he’d gone off to the bar while Varric and Fenris looked for a table.

“If I’d have known that having you with us would make Chuckles over there so damn entertaining, I would have insisted on dragging you along sooner.” Varric said mildly as they’d claimed seats at a table near the blazing warmth of the fireplace. “Kicking and screaming, if that’s what it took.”

“It’s fortunate, then, that you remained unaware,” Fenris had said, watching disinterestedly as Hawke struck up a conversation with Corff, the substance of which was apparently of some great, unknown hilarity to the both of them. Fenris had been previously unaware that Corff had the capacity for laughter.

Isabela had sidled up alongside Hawke while he waited for Corff to pour the drinks he’d ordered. She had pressed in close to Hawke’s side before he’d even spotted her, slinging her arm over his broad, velvet-clad shoulders. Hawke had laughed at the contact, like he was surprised and pleased, and jostled her into a half-hug, his arm around the small of her back. Fenris had allowed himself to wonder, just momentarily, what that must be like. To enjoy touching and being touched without reservation or prickling discomfort. It seemed easy. Hawke was grinning, Isabela was laughing. How nice for them.

Fenris had glanced off towards the fire and, when Hawke approached with the three pints he’d ordered, Isabela had come along with a half-emptied pint of her own. She collapsed gracefully into the chair beside Fenris, folding her legs with a dramatic flourish as she purred Fenris’ name. Fenris had smiled without really thinking about it. Hawke had been right: Fenris did enjoy chatting with Isabela. She never irritated him by prattling on about mage’s rights, she valued freedom, and her flirtation was always lazy enough to be inoffensive.

Hawke had hesitated, pausing for a moment behind Isabela’s chair, before taking a seat between her and Varric. He’d slid a pint across the table to Fenris, smiling crookedly when Fenris thanked him for it.

Halfway through his first pint of what was reportedly the Hanged Man’s finest ale, Fenris had begun to understand why the others enjoyed taking part in their post-combat ritual. The various sights, sounds and, yes, even odors, of the Hanged Man all became much more palatable through a faint alcohol-induced fog. It had been pleasant, even. The fire had crackled away merrily, casting a warm and flickering light over their table, radiating a heat that seeped into Fenris’ very bones. As their own conversation deepened, the drunken louts guffawing at other tables seemed farther away, insignificant, beneath notice. And Fenris had found himself enjoying the conversation they shared amongst themselves. Varric had taken it upon himself to regale Isabela with the whole tale of their search for ironbark and all the exploits she had missed. Listening to Varric’s version of events, everything seemed lighter somehow. The darkspawn swarm, the charging ogre, Hawke’s nearly smashed head—it all seemed more exciting, more heroic, less idiotically reckless.

Fenris had felt almost calm, with the buzz of alcohol in his veins and Varric’s stories in his ears. When he was down to the last few sips of his pint, he’d even managed to stop glancing over his shoulder at the door every few minutes or so. He’d felt safe where he was, with three people who were almost like friends, for all they were a mage, a pirate, and a dwarf. He’d felt settled enough that, when Varric offered to get them all another round, Fenris hadn’t even hesitated before accepting.

That had been a mistake, also.

Because a second drink had naturally given way to a third. Hawke had picked up the first round, Varric had covered the second, and it had seemed only polite for Fenris to take care of the third. And after the third drink… well, Fenris had had more than a few errors in judgement after that.

He’d agreed to play a hand of Wicked Grace with Varric and Isabela, for one thing, in spite of the fact that he lacked a working knowledge of the rules. Hawke, who had presumably kept in better control of his faculties, had sat the game out, nursing his third drink while the others moved on to their forth.

That had come as a bit of a surprise, honestly. Fenris hadn’t had Hawke down as someone with a lick of self-control, but, apparently, he was able to exercise some restraint when there wasn’t mortal peril involved. It was peculiar. Fenris would have expected Hawke to be the one taking charge of the group, even during their revelry. He’d have thought that Hawke would be the loudest voice in the room, the one proposing another round, the one laying all his cards emphatically on the table.

He wouldn’t have expected Hawke to be so…mild. That wasn’t quite the word for it, but Fenris hadn’t really been in the right state of mind to search out the exact way to describe the way Hawke was melted back into his chair, so easy and relaxed and content to watch the others have their games without commanding attention for himself. From the first moment that they’d met, Fenris had always seen Hawke assuming a position of authority, and it was odd to see him as anything but the de facto leader. Fenris’ eyes had kept flicking away from his cards, drawn by the loosened slouch of Hawke’s broad shoulders, the gentle curve of his usually stiff spine, his long legs splayed carelessly apart, taking up a preposterous amount of space. It was distracting, though it probably didn’t fully account for how horribly Fenris had performed at Wicked Grace.

Fenris hadn’t won a single hand and his understanding of the game was still rudimentary at best by the time Hawke rose from the table, clapped Varric on the shoulder and said that the time had come for him to be heading home.

Varric had nodded without taking his eyes off his cards, barely seeming to register that Hawke had spoken. Hawke had glanced down at Varric’s cards, as well, which appeared to be sufficient to capture the dwarf’s attention and earn Hawke a reproving elbow to the gut. On the heels of a snorting laugh, Hawke had looked over at Fenris and asked, “Do you want me to walk you back to Hightown?” He’d smiled warmly, his lips quirking to one side. “You know how the streets are at night.”

Fenris glanced up at Hawke with a furrowed brow, bringing his own cards closer to his chest. “You would have to walk back to Lowtown by yourself afterwards,” he’d pointed out.

Hawke’s cheeks, already faintly flushed from drink, seemed to redden still further. “I could… I wouldn’t mind risking it. I don’t like you walking home alone, especially after a few drinks.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Fenris replied, perhaps more curtly than he’d intended, but there was something about the implication that he was incapable of taking care of himself that grated.

Which made what happened following Hawke’s departure considerably more humbling.

Fenris had decided to leave the Hanged Man eventually, when the hours had grown small and he’d lost more coin than he could afford and the sedating effect of alcohol had pushed him into drowsiness. Hawke had long since departed by that time and Varric and Isabela both lived just upstairs and Fenris was left to make his way to Hightown alone.

He had been ambushed before even reaching the marketplace.

A group of Sharps Highwaymen had descended upon him, seemingly from nowhere, and driven a blade through the meat of his shoulder before he’d even noticed they were there. That was probably due to the drink. Or perhaps to the late hour. Or the wandering state of his own mind.

The whole night—the whole day—had consisted of one idiotic mistake after another, all of which had led to this: kneeling in the streets of Lowtown, surrounded by corpses and drenched in his own blood. Outmanned, inebriated, and taken utterly unawares, Fenris knew that it could have been much worse. He was lucky to be the one left standing. In a manner of speaking. Literally standing seemed like an incredibly ambitious notion at that moment.

The plethora of stab wounds he’d acquired seemed to have had a tremendously sobering effect, robbing Fenris of whatever numbing relief he might have expected the alcohol to provide. His shoulder, the first part of his anatomy to be wounded, had been strained throughout the skirmish as he’d put those muscles through the punishing task of swinging his sword. His side, which he clutched desperately in the hope that it would keep his insides where they belonged, throbbed with every pulse of blood that spilled out onto the stones beneath him.

The Hanged Man was close, but there was nothing that anyone there would be able to do except send for Hawke or Anders. They would undoubtedly send for the latter, given that Hawke, though competent enough, didn’t have much of a reputation as a healer. And Fenris didn’t relish the idea of dealing with Anders in that particular moment. Or in any particular moment, really. Of course, there were times when it was unavoidable. Fenris was loathe to admit it, but there were a handful of injuries he’d received that undoubtedly would have proved fatal had Anders not been present. This did not seem to be one of those times. Fenris flattered himself that he’d been stabbed enough times in the past to know when a wound was truly dire.

Hawke was green and still unsure of himself when performing healing spells, but this was nothing he wouldn’t be able to handle. Fenris had seen Hawke offering his assistance in Anders’ clinic and watched as Hawke applied himself to practicing the new skills he’d been introduced to there. Hawke was proficient, powerful, and his touch wasn’t nearly as repellent as the abomination’s.

Fenris supposed that he was lucid enough to make his preferences known to Varric or Isabela, were he to stumble into the Hanged Man and suffer the scene that his bloodied appearance would likely cause amongst the disoriented drunks still gathered there. He felt a twist in his already churning gut at the thought of the looks he would draw, the red-rimmed eyes that would focus on him, the whiskey-soaked bodies that would close in around him, all while he was too weakened to defend himself. Fenris was revolted by the thought of it. He didn’t want a fuss, the chaos and the confusion that would come with entering the Hanged Man in his current state. He wanted calm and skill and reassurance. He wanted Hawke.

He would have to get up first.

Which was easier said than done, unfortunately. It was an awkward thing to rise from the ground, keeping one hand pressed to his side while trying not to strain his wounded shoulder any further, and even Fenris wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it. His vision swam the moment he pulled himself to his feet, though it was impossible to say whether that was from alcohol or from blood loss. It felt strange being upright at all and stranger still to be dragging one heavy foot in front of the other, but he managed it.

His progress though Lowtown was infuriatingly slow and Fenris had the strong suspicion that he’d left a trail of blood leading directly to Gamlen Amell’s door. It was too dark to see clearly, but he had felt the wetness seeping against his palm the whole way there.

Really, the entire walk had been rather more taxing than he’d expected. It took at least a few ragged breaths before Fenris was able to muster the strength to knock on the door. An effort which, as he really should have expected, was met with no response whatsoever. Probably because it would take an extraordinarily foolish person to answer an unexpected rapping at their door well past midnight in the slums of Lowtown.

Which meant that Fenris would now have the pleasure of bleeding out on Hawke’s doorstep, where his corpse would likely be mauled by roving dogs before Hawke stumbled upon it in the morning. He slumped forward, letting his forehead thump heavily against the wood of the door, and remained there, his eyes closed and his breathing labored as he tried to choke down enough pride to allow himself to cry out pitifully enough that Hawke’s bleeding heart would be unable to resist coming to the rescue.

Fenris was spared the effort when the door he was leaning against swung abruptly inward. He likely would have careened face-first into the ground if the support of the door hadn’t been immediately replaced by the bulk of something solid and warm and smelling faintly of sweat.

“Andraste’s ass, Fenris! What happened to you? Fenris?” The words rumbled through Hawke’s broad chest, which Fenris appeared to have crashed into.

Fenris made a move to pull away and stand of his own accord, but Hawke’s arms lifted to wrap around him, offering gentle but insistent support. “Slow down, Fenris, I’ve got you.” There was a strange, shaky quality to Hawke’s voice and an unmistakable tremble in the hand that rested against Fenris’ back. Fenris wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, or of the soft, shushing murmurings that might have more appropriately been used to soothe a spooked horse. “I’ve got you,” Hawke assured him again, his voice very low. “Let’s get you inside.”

There was a moment of hesitation before Hawke took an uncertain step away from Fenris, retaining a firm hold on his shoulders as if he doubted Fenris’ ability to remain standing without aid. Which may have been an entirely valid concern, so Fenris allowed it.

Hawke was so tentative, so achingly wary as he helped Fenris over the threshold. “It’s fine,” Fenris said tightly, those small words costing him an embarrassing amount of effort. “That’s… fine.”

Hawke made an uneven sound in the back of his throat that might have almost been a laugh if there had been more mirth and considerably less strained panic in it. “Well, since it’s _fine_ ,” he said, guiding Fenris back through the doorway. One of his wide palms rested over Fenris’ hand where it was still pressed to the worst of his injuries. The added pressure was a relief, almost enough to draw a sigh from Fenris. Almost.

The faint tremor in Hawke’s hand seemed to have subsided, perhaps assuaged by the prospect of the concrete task ahead. It seemed as though Hawke always performed best when there was some urgent matter to attend to.

Once they were both inside, Hawke nudged the door shut with his shoulder. That part was simple enough, but there was some rather awkward fiddling about with the latch afterwards, with Hawke keeping Fenris pinned between himself and the door as he tried to lock up without the advantage of sight. It was a clumsy process and Fenris was beginning to feel conscious of just how little space there was between himself and Hawke when the latch finally fell into place.

Through it all, Hawke conducted himself with such quiet care that Fenris might almost have thought that Hawke was making special effort to avoid waking the household, had Hawke not then called out, “Everything’s all right! It’s a friend!”

A door at the far end of the room squealed in noisy protest as it was pulled open. “At this hour?” came a woman’s fretful voice, clearly not wholly comforted by Hawke’s pronouncement. The speaker was blocked from view by the bulky form of Carver Hawke, who nearly filled out the entirety of the doorframe. From his relaxed stance and impassive expression, it was clear that Carver was attempting to look unperturbed, but he still clasped the hilt of a heavy sword that now hung loosely at his side.

“The elf, then?” Carver said, affecting boredom and mild disdain. “I’m not surprised.”

“Shut your mouth, Carver,” Hawke said, without any real heat. His hands were still planted on Fenris’ waist and his eyes hadn’t left Fenris for a moment. Hawke’s earnest gaze, surveying Fenris’ injuries and continually darting back up to Fenris’ face to see what he could read there, was rather disconcerting. Fenris was accustomed to being unabashedly stared at, but he couldn’t remember it ever having been with such concern.

Carver lifted his shoulders in a barely perceptible shrug and seemed on the verge of offering some retort to his brother when an older man shoved roughly past him. “There had better be a bloody good explanation for all that sodding racket at this hour,” he spat out, thrusting an accusatory finger in Hawke’s direction. Fenris had only met Gamlen in passing at the Blooming Rose, but he did remember the gravelly, aggressive tone he took with his eldest nephew. “You’ve been dragging your trouble to my doorstep since the second you came barging into Kirkwall. And after I’ve been charitable enough to take you and your ruddy lot into my—”

Whatever remained of Gamlen’s grievances was drowned out by a sudden, blood-curdling scream.

Hawke had shifted their position slightly, moving himself and Fenris towards a fireplace that smoldered sleepily at the far end of the room. An unfortunate consequence of that movement was that it put Fenris into full view of a gray-haired woman who had chosen that particular moment to peer out from between Gamlen and Carver’s wide shoulders.

“Oh Andraste, what’s happened?” exclaimed the woman, who was presumably Hawke’s mother. She and Fenris had never crossed paths before and it struck him now that the current circumstances made their first meeting rather less than ideal. He had never given any thought before as to how he might meet Hawke’s last remaining parent, but, if he had, Fenris would have liked to be a good deal more presentable. Or, at the very least, less bloody. As it was, she was horrified at the very sight of him. “What’s going on?” she gasped, cupping both hands over her mouth as she stared at Fenris with wide eyes. “Oh Maker, all that blood.”

“Andraste’s flaming ass, calm down, Leandra,” hissed Gamlen. “There’s enough noise without your dratted yowling.”

It occurred to Fenris that the scene he would have caused at the Hanged Man might have been considerably less disruptive than this one and that, perhaps, he should have sought out Varric and Isabela after all.

“Those highwaymen again, wasn’t it?” Carver said darkly, advancing to take a better look at the state Fenris was in. “How many of those bastards do we have to kill before they leave off?”

“At least a few more, it seems,” Fenris gritted out.

“We’ll hunt down every last one of them,” Hawke promised vehemently. “They’re going to regret this.”

It was impossible to doubt Hawke when he spoke with such firm authority, as though reality would have no choice but to bend to his will. Fenris would not have liked to be associated with those highwaymen at that moment. It was never wise to go against Hawke.

“When the time comes for retribution, I will gladly extend my services,” Fenris said, trying not to wince as Hawke helped lower him down into a rickety wooden chair beside the dwindling fire.

“Assuming you haven’t bled out by then,” Hawke said, his eyes falling down to the redness that darkened their entwined hands. He took a shuddering breath and turned his gaze back towards his brother. “We need to find a way to reach Anders without risking another run-in with those bastards.”

“Surely that won’t be necessary,” Fenris interjected before Carver could respond. “It seems a foolish risk to take when you’re a perfectly capable healer.”

Hawke, evidently too shocked to form words with any alacrity, stared at Fenris as though he hadn’t the faintest idea what to make of him. “You aren’t serious,” he said at last.

Fenris felt a small ripple of annoyance pass through him, both at the disbelieving look Hawke was giving him and at the prospect of repeating himself when Hawke had understood very well what he’d said. “I am serious,” he said, allowing the irritation he felt to come through in his voice. “It’s unnecessary and I don’t want it.”

Hawke knelt to the ground in front of Fenris and gave him a stern look. “I would argue,” Hawke said, sounding as close to cross as Fenris had ever heard him, “that it is very much necessary. I am not equipped to heal you, Fenris, and I will not have stubbornness be the cause of your death. I am sending for Anders.”

“As the person who’s going to be sent to Darktown, I don’t suppose I have a say?” drawled Carver.

“No,” snapped Hawke without sparing a glance in his brother’s direction. “I won’t have either of you fighting me on this. Fenris, we need Anders to heal you.” His tone brooked no argument.

Fenris argued anyway. “I have seen you heal worse than this, Hawke.”

“Never without supervision.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Hawke shook his head, color rising to his cheeks with an agitation that likely matched what Fenris felt. “Not this time,” he insisted. “Not when it’s you.” The ruddy cast of Hawke’s cheeks deepened to a furious red, but he held Fenris’ gaze fiercely. Carver, hovering over Hawke’s shoulder, made a soft sort of hooting noise which led Fenris to believe that Carver had willfully misunderstood his brother’s meaning.

“Fine, then,” said Fenris through his teeth, feeling more light-headed and impatient with each passing moment wasted on pointless debate. “I suppose I’ll sit here then, bleeding profusely, whilst you and your brother go running off to seek out Anders for no better reason than your ill-founded insecurity. The journey to the clinic and back will be a easy one at this hour, I trust.”

“Shit,” hissed Hawke, raking his hand through his hair. “Shit, you’re right. We don’t have the time it would take to get Anders.”

“Thank the Maker,” muttered Carver, without any discernible effort to lower his voice. At the quelling look Hawke gave him, Carver shrugged and added, “What? I didn’t want to do it.”

“Lucky you, then,” Hawke said tartly. “I’d hate to think that Fenris’ grievous injuries should inconvenience you in any way.”

“Well, I’m bloody inconvenienced,” cut in Gamlen, advancing a few paces towards Hawke in a transparent attempt to assert his presence in the room. He squared his shoulders, widening his stance and folding his arms across his chest as he came to loom over his eldest nephew. “One of your knife-ear friends comes pounding at _my_ door, dripping his guts over _my_ floors, and you sit him down at _my_ hearth without so much as a by-your-leave from the master of this house? When it’s by the grace of my name and my family that you and your lot weren’t left to rot at the city gates to start with?”

Fenris had never known anyone to speak to Hawke in that manner without suffering at least the threat of bodily harm, but Hawke only exhaled heavily through his nose, his lips firming into a tight line. He kept his eyes focused on his own hands where they were pressed to the deep wound on Fenris’ side. The pressure Hawke was applying lessened slightly as he attempted to take a better look at the injury and, in spite of himself, Fenris winced audibly. “I’m sorry,” Hawke said softly. “I’ll have to take the pressure off to see what I’m dealing with.”

“What was that?” Gamlen huffed, evidently displeased with the lack of acknowledgment his ranting had received. “I don’t suppose I can hope it was some shred of gratitude from you.”

“I think you’ve been shown the gratitude you’re due, Uncle,” said Carver sharply, placing a solid hand on Gamlen’s shoulder. Through slitted eyes, Gamlen glanced down at the heavy hand, his face beginning to show splotches of mottled puce across his sunken cheeks.

“Leave the boy alone, Gamlen,” Leandra interjected, diverting Gamlen’s attention before he could say something truly unwise to either Carver or Hawke. “It’s not Garrett’s fault that this… this _person_ came here at this hour. And none of us would be here in the first place if _you_ hadn’t squandered what my children had the right to inherit. If you hadn’t stolen what was rightly theirs.”

“Enough,” said Hawke. He didn’t need to raise his voice to command the attention of the room; the others heard him and they listened. “Enough of this, Uncle. I will discuss this with you in the morning, but, for the time being, I will ask that you excuse yourself and attempt to get some rest. For my part, I’ll keep all further disturbances to a minimum.”

Gamlen glowered impotently, first at Leandra and then at Hawke. “Fine,” he spat out at last, shaking Carver’s firm hand from his shoulder. “But you,” he added emphatically to Hawke, “you had better clean up this mess by morning. I’m not your servant.” Then, with as much dignity as he could muster while fleeing from his own nephews, Gamlen stomped back to what was presumably the family’s sleeping quarters, slamming the door with such force that a shower of dust fell from the rafters overhead.

Hawke heaved a sigh as his uncle vacated the room, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have spoken about you that way.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” said Fenris, straining to keep the discomfort from his voice as Hawke prodded at him gently. “I should never have come to you this late.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What else could you have done? Though I do wish you had let me walk you home in the first place.” He raised his eyes, looking up at Fenris through slightly lowered lashes and the shaky shadow of a smile turning the corners of his mouth.

“It would be foolish to argue with you on that point, given my current state,” Fenris conceded.

“Hm. I’ll remind you of that next time.” The full pressure of Hawke’s hand returned to Fenris’ side as he raised his eyes to meet Fenris’ gaze. “I can’t get a proper look at the full extent of your injuries with that armor on. Before I can see what I’m dealing with, I’ll have to help you off with most of it.”

“Of course you will,” Carver snorted.

Hawke shot his brother a withering glance over his shoulder. “Carver, you’re not being helpful,” he said, his stern tone undercut slightly by the flush of red sweeping above the line of his beard and probably below it as well.

Carver shrugged, enjoying himself. “Not trying to be.”

“In that case, why don’t you go join our uncle?”

“I’m happy here.”

“ _Carver_ ,” sighed Hawke, his exasperation evident.

“ _Garrett_ ,” Carver mimicked, hitting the final consonants with a hard click of his tongue against the upper row of his teeth.

“Boys,” chided Leandra. As both her sons deflated slightly, she came to stand closer to where Hawke knelt, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “How can we help?”

Hawke shook his head, looking back at his reddened hand against Fenris’ side. “I don’t think there’s much either of you can do right now. If Anders were here… but he’s not and I….” Hawke trailed off with a rasping exhalation and a pinched look crossing his face. “I just need to focus,” he said tightly. “Here, keep your hand there for me.” The last bit was meant for Fenris, as Hawke took away the solid weight of his own hands and rose from the floor to begin the process of stripping away Fenris’ armor. Fenris sucked in an unsteady breath through his teeth as Hawke began to remove his pauldrons, the unpracticed movements jolting Fenris’ injured shoulder uncomfortably.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Leandra asked anxiously, circling back behind the chair where Fenris sat to stand closer to Hawke as he went about his work.

“I don’t think—”

“Surely, there must be something,” insisted Leandra, shifting restlessly. “I helped your father for years when he—”

“I could use some light, I suppose,” Hawke cut in. “If you wouldn’t mind stoking the fire, that would help. And I’m sure Fenris would appreciate the warmth.” With this task assigned, Fenris felt the radiating waves of Leandra’s nervous energy instantly begin to subside. Her movements, as she knelt beside the hearth, became purposeful and direct as her anxiety found an outlet. Behind him, Fenris heard Hawke let out a sigh that was too soft for either of the others to hear.

Fenris wondered idly if it occurred to Leandra to question why her son—a mage who could throw fireballs with ease—would need help building a fire. Though, there was a chance the need was genuine. Perhaps, with a truly daunting amount of healing ahead, Hawke didn’t feel he had any mana to spare.

“Carver, as an alternative to just standing about, I don’t suppose you’d take Fenris’ armor off my hands?” Hawke said as Fenris felt the weight of his pauldrons lifting from his shoulders.

Carver, predictably, grumbled his objections to the task as he nevertheless approached to accept the armful of bloodied armor that Hawke extended to him. “Thank you,” said Hawke, as something of an afterthought, as he set about loosening the straps that held Fenris’ chest plate in place.

It had been ages since someone other than Fenris himself had dealt with the process of stripping away the layers of his armor. Fenris worked largely from muscle memory when he dressed and undressed each day and he knew from experience that it was not a simple undertaking, though it was likely made easier when one could actually see what they were doing. Even so, he could feel the uncertainty of Hawke’s movements as he worked. He could feel the light shaking of Hawke’s hands as they tugged at unfamiliar fastenings and hear the soft sounds of his frustration as he lingered over particularly stubborn buckles. Had he been in a more fit state, Fenris would have liked to offer his assistance. Of course, had he been in a more fit state, Hawke would not have been undressing him at all.

The chest plate finally gave under Hawke’s persistent hands and Hawke circled around to stand before Fenris as he lifted it carefully away, handing it off into Carver’s reluctant care. “How are you holding up?” asked Hawke, sinking down to his knees in front of Fenris once more.

“As well as can be expected,” Fenris replied, trying as best he could to sound as though he weren’t in a state of fairly debilitating pain.

Hawke winced in response, which perhaps indicated that Fenris had been less that successful in his attempt at concealment. “It will be over soon, I promise,” said Hawke, giving Fenris’ lower thigh a gentle squeeze that was probably meant to be reassuring. In actuality, it made Fenris jolt with surprise, which had the unfortunate consequence of sending his entire body into a fresh wave of throbbing discomfort.

Hawke, for his part, looked appropriately mortified, rapidly firing off apologies as he set to the task of removing Fenris’ jagged gauntlets. To Fenris’ immense relief, Hawke’s proficiency seemed to have increased through repetition, and the process moved along more efficiently than the previous pieces of his armor had.

When the gauntlets were removed, passed easily from Hawke to Carver, the unsettling reality of the situation began to settle over Fenris. Piece by piece, he was being exposed. It was just skin, of course, as it was always just skin, but he realized, as his own bare fingertips curled inwards towards his empty palms, that he had never been without his armor in Hawke’s presence before. Yes, he had let himself be stripped of a component here and there during healing, but never completely. He had never felt Hawke’s fingertips graze over the naked skin of his wrist, his inner elbow, the markings that twisted around his forearms and hands. The contact was incidental, entirely perfunctory, but Fenris found himself aware of exactly how much perfunctory, incidental contact lay ahead of them. In all the years since he had fled Seheron, Fenris had never permitted anyone to touch him more than was absolutely necessary and now he was allowing himself to be undressed in front of nearly all the remaining members of Hawke’s family, as well as the mage himself.

It would be over soon, in any case. Hawke rose from the floor once more, the motion fluid and easy, and disappeared behind Fenris to set about unhooking the long series of intricate fastenings that held Fenris’ tunic in place. This was always the part that gave Fenris the most trouble when he was dressing and undressing himself and it was unsurprising to find that Hawke seemed to labor over it as well. He came in close, examining how the components fit together, and Fenris found himself thinking that it had indeed been very helpful of Leandra to bring new life to the fire. Without it’s flickering light, Hawke likely would have needed to lean in even closer, and as it was, Fenris could already feel the warmth of Hawke’s breath gusting over the nape of his neck. He could also feel the brush of Hawke’s fingertips against the line of exposed skin that ran down the center of his back, though each touch was brief. Incidental, as ever, perfunctory, as expected, but searing nonetheless.

The onslaught of sensations verged on the unbearable. The pain of injury, the ache of strained muscles, the prickling awareness of someone else’s hands on him. It was too much for one body to process at any given moment, and yet his nerves forced him to be aware of all of it. It was overwhelming, too much all at once, and it was almost a relief when the last fastening gave way and Hawke began to ease Fenris’ tunic off of him.

“There. That’ll do it,” Hawke said, carefully easing one of Fenris’ arms free from the garment. “I have to do the bad arm now,” he warned, before delicately taking on the other side. When Fenris let out an involuntary hiss, Hawke met his gaze apologetically. “I know, I’m sorry, but that’s it for now.” His gaze lowered, sweeping over exposed wounds and bare skin, before lifting back to Fenris’ face. “I’ve got you.” Fenris nodded, giving as much acknowledgement of the words as he felt equipped to offer at that moment.

When Carver came forward to whisk away the slashed hide of Fenris’ tunic, Leandra was hovering along at his side, her movements tentative as she approached. From the way she had spoken to her brother and from the scattered details of her life that he had heard from Hawke, Fenris was willing to hazard that she possessed the characteristic boldness that seemed inherent in Hawke’s family. She seemed reticent to draw near to Fenris, however, eyeing his markings with speculative caution as she remained a few careful paces away from him.

There were times when Fenris appreciated his intimidating appearance. He knew that he could be imposing, even though he lacked the massive bulk of either Hawke or Carver. Still, his markings and his wiry frame tended to give him a vicious, feral look, and one that he could easily accentuate with the hard set of his features. Looking the way he did, it took an exceptionally brave or foolish person to encroach upon his personal boundaries. Usually, he accepted that as a blessing.

Now, however, he felt an unpleasant self-consciousness mingling with irritation that Hawke’s mother, knowing full-well that Fenris was an ally of her son’s, should still look wary of him. He was at once annoyed that she seemed to distrust him and ashamed that he hadn’t managed to make a better impression. It was a bewildering blend of emotions.

“Garrett dear,” she ventured cautiously, “how is it that you know this… person? I don’t recall you having mentioned—?” She trailed off and irritation quickly overwhelmed the rest of Fenris’ emotions. It took an astounding level of self-control not to scowl at her.

“I’ve mentioned Fenris, Mother,” Hawke said evenly, without looking up from his examination of Fenris’ shoulder.

“And mentioned, and mentioned,” drawled Carver, from the corner of the room.

“Carver,” said Hawke, sounding so desperately weary that even Carver had the decency to relent.

“ _This_ is Fenris?” asked Leandra, her eyes scanning appraisingly over all the places where his lyrium markings were visible. It must have been very distressing, Fenris thought bitterly, for her to imagine her precious son roaming the city with such a disreputable-looking companion.

“This is Fenris,” confirmed Hawke, retaining his focus on the task at hand, though Fenris noticed a muscle twitch ominously at the corner of his jaw. “Mother, would you please get me the spare healing poultices and salves from my pack? I left it beside the door when I got in.”

Fenris turned his gaze from Leandra to the shadows on Hawke’s face, deep and dark under his eyes. He bore the signs of dishevelment and stress of a day that had run on too long and a night’s sleep cut far too short. There was wiry stubble high on Hawke’s cheeks, sprouting well above the uppermost line of his beard, as though it was planning to advance its territory across Hawke’s entire face if left unattended. His exhaustion was evident and, again, Fenris was struck by a twinge of guilt over having roused Hawke so early, over having been injured, over rejecting Hawke’s offer to escort him home.

But, Fenris reminded himself, if he’d accepted that offer, then perhaps Hawke would have been the one ambushed on his way home, and then where would they be? Hawke would have had no one to crawl to, no one to heal him at an impossibly early hour. It was a foul, stomach-turning thought, worse by far than his guilt over having been injured himself.

Leandra drew near again with a number of poultices clutched in her hands as well as a bottle of something fearfully yellow and forebodingly viscous. “I don’t know how you always manage to surround yourself with the most unusual companions,” she chided as Hawke took the offerings from her.

Hawke turned away, placing the poultices and ominous bottle gently on the dusty floorboards. “Just lucky, I suppose.” He placed a flat palm over Fenris’ injured shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Fenris, can you extend your arm and rotate your shoulder for me?” he instructed. “I know it will hurt, but please try.” Fenris did as he was told, gritting his teeth together so tightly that it was a wonder they didn’t break. “Good,” Hawke told him, sounding relieved. “That’s very good, Fenris. It’s a deep wound, but it seems like it’s just the muscle tissue. The stab wound on your side is… it’s more severe.” Hawke’s throat clicked audibly as he swallowed. “I should deal with that first, I think.”

Leandra had evidently acquired enough courage to ask, “What else can I help with, dear?”

Hawke shook his head. “I’ll take care of this, Mother. Try to get some rest.”

“Sweetheart, are you sure? Your father never had the chance to instruct you in this and I know you can throw a showy fireball, but it’s very intricate work and I was there, at least, when your father was training Bethany. Maker, if only he had insisted on teaching you both how to heal. Bethany had such an affinity for it and it was never something you seemed to take to, but if we had known how desperately you would need the experience one day, then—”

“Linens,” interrupted Hawke, not quite sharply, but with a decided brusqueness to the interjection. “I need fresh linen, cut into strips and boiled for at least a quarter of an hour with an equal mixture of elfroot and lavender flowers. There should be some clean cloth in the desk drawer along with my empty potion bottles. And Carver, you’ve more experience with armor than I do. Do you think you could give Fenris’ a quick clean? Just to get the worst of the blood off. You’ve got supplies in the other room, don’t you?”

“When did I volunteer to be Fenris’ little pageboy?” grumbled Carver, huffing theatrically as he gathered a cumbersome load of Fenris’ armor into his arms. He did shuffle off as he was told, but not without a steady stream of grousing that went on until he was gone from the room. Once Leandra had followed suit, moving swiftly to the other side of the room and beginning to rummage through the contents of the wobbly desk that stood there, Hawke let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” Hawke said earnestly, leaning in close to Fenris’ ear so he wouldn’t be overheard. “She _is_ trying to be helpful, which is more than I can say for Carver.”

“It’s fine, Hawke,” Fenris assured him, quiet and breathless with strain and exhaustion.

“It’s not. I know it can be overwhelming with everyone fussing and hovering around. And it’s a small space and there are too many of us and—”

“Hawke,” Fenris cut in, as firmly as he could manage. “It’s fine.” He made a concerted effort to turn his mouth into a reassuring smile.

Hawke returned the expression wearily, shoulder slumping forward slightly. “Of course,” he sighed, gaze falling downwards. “I’m sure you have better things to worry about than my overbearing family. What with the blood loss and all.”

Fenris arched an eyebrow, trying and perhaps failing to look wryly amused. “Should I be worried about it?”

Hawke shrugged his shoulders, unscrewing the lid of a small jar filled with a paste that smelled strongly of elfroot and scooping out a generous portion of its contents with his fingers. “Honestly? This… this isn’t my speciality, Fenris,” he sighed, dabbing the ointment delicately around the puncture on Fenris’ side. “Anders… Anders would be the better choice.” In slow, circular movements, he began to massage the foul-smelling ointment into Fenris’ skin, making swirling progress towards the wound without quite coming into contact with the broken skin.

“I came to you,” Fenris reminded him. The skin Hawke’s fingers had traced was beginning to tingle into numbness, the loss of sensation coming as a welcome relief. Fenris eased back into the chair, biting his lower lip to hold back a blissful sigh.

“I know. And I appreciate the confidence you seem to have in my abilities, but I… this is more than I have done before.”

“You won’t let me die,” Fenris said, his eyes slipping closed.

“I won’t.”

Fenris could feel the pressure of Hawke’s fingertips, still tracing in slow, focused circles. Hawke’s other hand—the one not occupied in the methodical, merciful application of ointment—rested on Fenris’ hipbone, holding him unnecessarily in place. The touch was light, but firm, providing comfort as much as gentle support. There was something in the careful, cradling touch that left Fenris with the impression that he was being handled like a badly hurt and terribly fragile woodland creature. Fenris might have objected to the feeling of being coddled, but it felt like a natural extension of Hawke, like he would treat anything that was in pain with the same gentleness. Splinting the wings of damaged birds and offering milk to abandoned baby squirrels seemed like just the sort of nonsense that Hawke would have gotten up to during his wild, apostate youth.

“This is going to be the worst part,” Hawke warned, his voice quiet and calm. “Just keep steady for me and it’ll feel better soon.”

Fenris nodded, opening his eyes to see what Hawke was doing. It seemed like it might be easier to watch as it happened, so he could anticipate the exact moment of pain and deal with it accordingly. With his eyes opened, Fenris realized how close to him Hawke was. That was to be expected, of course. He had known, with one of Hawke’s hands gently curling around his waist and the other soothing elfroot paste over his skin, that they were situated rather intimately. It was a startling thing to witness even so. Fenris felt a sudden jolt in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Hawke’s face so near to his own. Hawke was holding Fenris’ gaze, his preposterous, cow-like eyelashes casting fringed shadows over the sharp cut of his cheekbones. The shadows moved and fluttered like dark fans, an exaggerated dance in the flickering light of the hearth’s russet glow. Fenris nodded again, the heat of the flames bringing a warm flush to the surface of his skin.

Hawke dropped his gaze down to the pot of ointment as he scooped another generous portion of its contents out with his fingertips. He was still for a moment, taking slow breaths like he was steeling himself. Fenris matched those deep breaths, trying to prepare himself for what was to come. “All right,” Hawke rasped, mostly to himself, and then applied his glossy, coated fingertips directly to the weeping wound.

Fenris couldn’t hold back the sharp gasp, instinctively pulling away from the touch, but he was pulled back by the unyielding grip of Hawke’s hand where it tightened around his hipbone. The quiet, shushing sounds were back, Hawke trying to soothe him even as his calloused fingertips glided across Fenris’ sundered flesh. “You’re doing well,” Hawke assured him, the thumb of his bracing hand moving in sweeping strokes over the skin just below Fenris’ ribcage. “You’re doing so well.”

Hawke’s fingers dipped deeper into the wound and relief came at the heels of that pain. Whatever blend of herbal distillations that had gone into that foul-smelling ointment took their effect quickly, leaving Fenris mercifully numb. There was still pain—Fenris’ shoulder throbbed and seared, his muscles ached, his skin was too warm—but the sudden absence of his most acute pain drew an involuntary moan from Fenris’ mouth before he could bite his lip to hold it back.

“Better?”

Fenris bobbed his head, letting his eyes flutter to half-mast as he let his body go slack and almost liquid under Hawke’s hands.

“It’s elfroot, mostly,” explained Hawke, “but there’s other things, too. The primary purpose is to cleanse the wound, but it does help with the pain, as well.”

“I noticed,” Fenris sighed, a little groggily.

“I’m sorry to have put you through it. If Anders were here…,” Hawke cleared his throat, cutting himself off before he tread those familiar grounds again. “But it helps,” he continued, “to ensure that the wound will heal properly, in the event that my magic isn’t thorough enough.”

“Just remember what your father said about focus,” came Leandra’s voice, closer than Fenris would have expected. He hadn’t noticed her drawing closer, kneeling by the hearth to hang a tarnished pot, heavy with water, over the crackling fire. She looked back at Hawke over her shoulder. “Be patient and give yourself the time to get centered.”

“Thank you, Mother” said Hawke, though it was unclear whether he was referring to the advice or to the water and gauzy, white linens. “It may take a while for that to come to a boil. Please, get some rest while we wait.”

A furrow at the center of Leandra’s brow tightened as she looked at her son, with his red hands and his hunched, weary shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t need…?”

Hawke shook his head. “It’s just water boiling. And….” He swallowed, the line of his lips tightening for a fraction of a moment before he began again. “And I do need to take off more of Fenris’ armor. I do appreciate all the help you’ve given, but I’m sure he would be more comfortable if….”

Leandra’s eyes flicked towards Fenris, to his bare torso and the half of him that was still covered. “Of course, dear,” she said, rising from the floor with a faint flush to her cheeks. She paused beside her son before stooping forward, brushing a thin hand through the hair that had tumbled over his brow as she pressed a light kiss to his forehead. Hawke’s eyes closed, his face softening as he accepted the gesture. When Leandra pulled upright again, she spared Fenris another thoughtful look. “You’ve been very brave,” she told him, with a gentleness that Fenris wouldn’t have expected. “You’re in good hands.” Her hand lingered against Hawke’s dark hair for a moment longer before she turned and left them, the door to the bedroom closing softly behind her.

Hawke sighed, turning his attention back to Fenris. “I’m not going to take off any more of your armor,” he said, a twitching smile at the corner of his lips. “But she didn’t need to be here for this. I thought you might prefer to have some privacy.”

Hawke had thought correctly, but it seemed discourteous to say so. Fenris wondered if that’s how family always was—too much noise and too many bodies taking up too little space and fond caresses against rumpled hair. It all seemed alien to him, like something he shouldn’t witness. Hawke, with his family, the commotion and the closeness that Fenris couldn’t fully understand. “It was kind of your mother to help,” he said at last. “Though I do prefer it like this.” The two of them, he meant, though that felt like another thing he shouldn’t say.

“It’s easier like this,” Hawke agreed. “I can’t always think when I’m with them. It can feel like I’m a boy again, struggling over the simplest spell.”

Fenris huffed, almost a laugh. “I can’t imagine you struggled overmuch.”

The quirk at the edge of Hawke’s lips bloomed into a smile. “There you go again, having faith in my abilities. I only hope that faith isn’t misplaced.”

“It isn’t.”

Hawke stared at him, his whiskey eyes going momentarily wide as his smile loosened with something that must have been surprise. He was an idiot, if that was enough to catch him off-guard. All his strength, all his abilities, all the good he had done and lives he had saved, and there was still a part of Hawke that seemed to doubt his capability. Idiocy. Fenris caught himself smiling at it and Hawke shook his head, as though disbelieving still.

“Let me live up to it, then,” Hawke said, sitting back on his heels and closing his eyes as he settled in, gathering his focus.

Hawke’s hands readjusted against Fenris’ sides, palms flattening on either side of his torso. His pain quieted to a persistent, throbbing thrum, Fenris found himself aware of the the ridged callouses that ran across the considerable breadth of Hawke’s palms and hardened the pads of his fingertips. Evidence of the intensity with which Hawke applied himself to his training. Not only to his spellwork, but to everything. Hawke wielded his staff as though it were a weapon, not merely some instrument to direct his spells, and the physicality of it was branded over Hawke’s body in its entirety. Broad-shouldered and thick-armed, he was more powerfully built than even Carver, for all he was a mage. Not one of those pampered, effete wastrels of the Magistarium, content to derive power from magic alone. His hands were strong, the weight of them reassuring.

Hawke took another steadying breath, filling the deep barrel of his chest slowly, and then Fenris felt it. Like plunging into cool water, he felt the rush of magic coursing from Hawke’s hands into his own body. Unbidden, Fenris felt himself arching into it, pressing forward into the blissful relief of those hands as the pain drained from him. He was aware, distantly, of his own rough breathing, gasps turning into sighs as agony faded exquisitely into warmth and the beautiful mundanity of comfort.

The prickle of magic, liquid and electric, spread from his side to his shoulder, coursing through every scrape and bruise that lay between. He heard himself panting with the sheer relief of it, his eyes closed and his mouth fallen open as Hawke’s hands bracketed his ribcage, steadily pouring magic into him like its source was infinite.

Fenris was faintly aware that he should feel embarrassed by his own reaction. But, at that moment, he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. He melted back into the chair, Hawke’s hands still on him even as their outpouring of magic faded away.

There was a moment of stillness, afterwards, which Fenris was in no hurry to disturb. The heavy sound of breathing—Hawke’s and his own—accompanied the crackling of the fire, noisy in the otherwise quiet room as Fenris slowly collected himself. Dazedly, Fenris allowed his eyes to drift open, and found, when he did so, that Hawke was blinking back at him.

“Look at that,” Hawke exhaled shakily, eyes falling from Fenris’ face to his torso. “No scars, no marks, nothing.” His open palm stroked upwards along Fenris’ side, moving from the top of his hipbone to just below his pectoral as he examined his work. A calloused thumb swept in an absent arc against his chest, perilously close to grazing over a pebbled nipple, but Fenris, mercifully, was able to suppress any sign of a shudder. “And your shoulder,” Hawke continued, beginning to prod inquisitively at that former site of injury, light poking becoming a squeezing massage as his cursory examination progressed. “I didn’t think I’d be able to, not all at once, but….” He was grinning triumphantly, caught up in the elation of apparent success, but the expression softened as he lifted his gaze to meet Fenris’. “How… how do you feel?” he asked, gently. “Did it work all right?”

Fenris swallowed thickly, now finding the strength to be embarrassed by what his reactions had been towards the end, when the relief had been too much to take with dignity. “Fine,” he answered, his voice somewhat strained to his own ears. Clearing his throat, Fenris took the time to roll his shoulder, to test the stiffness that lingered there, before he added, “You’ve done good work, Hawke.”

Hawke looked pleased with himself, his face made more youthful by it. “Good,” he said, the grin returning with all its initial brilliance. “Good,” he reiterated, his shoulders relaxing now that the task was done. “I’ll still want Anders to take a look at you in the morning, but that should be enough for now. Though I do think you should stay here for the rest of the night.”

Fenris should have recognized that such a proposition was the obvious consequence of his seeking out Hawke that night, but his mind had been otherwise occupied and, as it was, he found himself taken aback. “Hawke, I don’t think that’s wise,” he said hesitantly, eyes darting towards the door past which Hawke’s uncle and mother were undoubtedly failing to sleep.

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Hawke countered wryly.

“You must admit that your family seemed less than thrilled by my arrival.”

Hawke nodded solemnly. “You’re right. Why don’t I just send you back into the street to die, then?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You catch my meaning.”

Hawke sighed wearily, lifting one of his hands to rub at the stiffness from one of his shoulders. “I do,” he said, “but I don’t care. Yes, I’m sure my uncle will make a nuisance of himself in the morning and, yes, Carver will be insufferable, but you’re not going to walk back to Hightown alone at this hour.” Hawke held Fenris’ gaze levelly. “Please.”

Fenris couldn’t argue any further and found that he didn’t much care to. “Thank you, Hawke,” he said, relenting.

With a dazzling smile, Hawke clapped Fenris gently on the knee, carefully restraining his use of force. “Good,” he said, clearly pleased that the matter was now settled. “Wait here and I’ll find you some fresh clothes.”

Blood-stained, exhausted, but obviously pleased with himself, Hawke strode to the door off to the side of the central room of the house. He was taking care to be quiet as he opened and closed the door, an obviously futile effort to keep from bothering his family further, as Fenris sincerely doubted that irritable Gamlen and anxious Leandra had drifted into unconsciousness while Fenris had been mewling like a wounded animal in the next room.

Carver, for his part, was obviously awake and taking up a conversation with Hawke in the next room. The walls were evidently thin and, even with the door tightly closed, Fenris could distinctly hear Hawke shushing his brother, the rise and fall of their voices audible even though the words remained indistinct. Just a conversation, familiar and low.

Fenris stayed by the fire, as he had been instructed, largely because there wasn’t much else for him to do but wait. Still, it was almost tempting to steal off while Hawke was gone, putting an end to the night once and for all. Of course, he hadn’t his armor and strolling through Kirkwall in nothing but his trousers was as sure a way to catch his death as any he could think of.

The pain was gone now, settled into the mild discomfort of strain that he knew well was a common side effect of having been recently healed. He would need time and ample rest to recover fully, for his muscles to soothe and for his body to fill with its usual levels of blood. As it was, he felt drained and deeply weary, but so uneasily out of place in Hawke’s home that he couldn’t shake the urge to flee it altogether. There was so little space for him within these walls, both in the literal and figurative senses. The claustrophobic little house, full to bursting with family and history and chatter and the warm glow of an active hearth.

Hawke’s life was so cluttered, so full of people and memories and all the trappings of normalcy that Fenris could only imagine, but couldn’t hope to understand. His own house was vast and empty, void of memory and sentiment and warmth. There was space for him there. He ached for that unfettered freedom, that emptiness where he could lose himself, disappearing into the dust and shadows. He belonged there in the hollowness, beneath the cavernous ceilings, wandering in those vacant rooms. It was his, with Hawke as his only visitor, and an infrequent one at that.

A wet twig snapped in the fire and Fenris lolled his head towards the warmth, staring into the flames. Hawke was probably never alone. Surrounded by friends, crushed into a minuscule home with his family at the end of the day. He appreciated people and filled his life to bursting with a hoard of them. It was probably why he couldn’t keep his nose out of everyone’s business and felt compelled to help every distressed citizen of Kirkwall. It was admirable, Fenris decided grudgingly. Hawke’s capacity for caring was endless, infinite. He drew no boundaries around himself. He allowed people in without question, just as he had opened his door to Fenris that night and let him come spilling inwards.

The way that Hawke’s face had lit up with delight when he had succeeded in healing Fenris had been a thing of beauty to witness. The weariness of the day and of his efforts had melted into glorious, boyish enthusiasm and joy. Hawke bloomed in the company of others; Fenris curled inwards and wilted. Hawke gave so freely. All it took to gain access to his life was a request for admittance. And being a part of Hawke’s life meant loyalty, support, excitement, and a door that always opened. Fenris hadn’t meant to do so, but he had begun to allow access to Hawke in return. It was unsettling, to leave a door cracked open that he usually kept firmly closed.

Fenris jolted at the sound of Carver’s return. “I cut my thumb on one of your gauntlets,” announced Carver, setting Fenris’ armor atop an overturned barrel that seemed to serve as a table. While not meticulously cleaned, the armor had at least been wiped clean of enough blood that Fenris would be able to walk through Hightown without raising more eyebrows than usual. Which was to say, of course, that many eyebrows would be shooting upward, but only for the usual reasons. “What in the Maker’s name do you do when you have an itch?” marveled Carver, shaking his head. “Those things are daggers.”

“I rub myself against tree trunks, of course,” replied Fenris, though he was reasonably certain that the question had been rhetorical. Hawke, trailing after his brother, snorted softly at the response, which was gratifying in any case.

“Practical,” said Carver, rolling his eyes. “Now, if my brother will allow it, I’d like to get to bed. I was having a dream I’d love to get back to.”

“Peaches again, was it?” Hawke said nonsensically, though his tone suggested there was some meaning that Fenris couldn’t gather.

“Sod off,” grumbled Carver flatly, slouching off to the bedroom.

Hawke shook his head with apparent fondness as his brother departed. During his absence, Hawke appeared to have taken the opportunity to wipe most of Fenris’ blood from himself and now stood with a bundle of clothing clutched in his mostly clean hands. As the bedroom door closed softly, he placed the assembled clothing, which was in all likelihood a selection of his own, beside the heap of Fenris’ armor.

“They’re clean,” Hawke said, turning to Fenris with his eyes warm and his mouth upturned into a smile. “A little threadbare, I’m sorry, but it took some rummaging around to find something without my stink all over it.”

Fenris had never known Hawke to stink. He did come into contact with all manner of foul-smelling substances, but his own scent was always muted and pleasant. “Thank you, Hawke,” said Fenris, inclining his head towards the neatly folded pile of clothes. “I’m sure they’ll serve their purpose.”

“Right,” nodded Hawke. “Right. You should clean up first, I think,” he added, crossing the room to retrieve a water pitcher and chipped porcelain bowl from the paper-strewn desk that seemed to serve as a chaotic shelf for the family’s assorted mail.

It seemed practiced, the way Hawke placed the bowl beside the hearth and filled it halfway with the tepid contents of the pitcher and then ladled in steaming scoops of the water Leandra had set to boil above the fire. In his own home, Fenris bathed in a large, clawfoot tub that had been abandoned there by the previous residents. There were no such luxuries in Hawke’s home, however, with no space or spare funds to accommodate them. Uninvited, this small insight into Hawke’s daily cleansing ritual brought a short series of images flashing through Fenris’ mind.

“The linens are clean,” Hawke said when he seemed satisfied with the temperature of the water. He stood upright, taking in Fenris’ current state of filth with a sweeping glance that lingered nowhere. “There are more in the drawer over there, if that’s not enough,” he added, nodding towards the desk.

“Thank you,” said Fenris, rising to his own feet less easily than Hawke had done. The simple movement was enough to leave him a little lightheaded, listing gently to one side before he firmed his stance.

Hawke shifted his weight, eyes flicking quickly over Fenris once more before he resolutely met his gaze. “So, I’ll give you some time to scrub up, then,” he said, clearing his throat roughly. “I’ll be just in there if you need anything,” he added, gesturing towards the bedroom door. “I’ll get a cot together. Come in when you’re ready.”

The silence that followed Hawke’s departure was somehow jarring. Solitude seemed a foreign thing within those walls, another thing that didn’t fit there. Alone in the heart of the Hawke family’s home, Fenris made no rush to rid himself of the remainder of his clothing. The privacy felt fragile, like it could be shattered at any moment. He waited while the quiet settled around him before shuffling towards the warm bowl of water and stooping down beside it.

Still half-dressed, he dipped a bunched strip of white linen into water and wrung it out over the bowl. Hastily, he scrubbed at his arms first, the linen reddening as he chafed it over his skin. The skin Hawke’s magic has stitched together was still tender and new under the abrasive cloth, though Fenris had been healed enough times to know that there’d be no scars left behind. How ridiculous it was that Hawke had thought himself incapable.

Fenris made a concerted effort to keep the water clean, switching linens frequently, but the contents of the bowl were pink and cloudy by the time he had washed satisfactorily. There were still dark streaks across his torso and he hadn’t bothered to make any attempt at his lower half, but it was enough, he thought, that Hawke’s clothes would not be left badly stained from Fenris having worn them.

The idea of wearing the mage’s clothes was disconcerting for some reason that Fenris couldn’t fully articulate to himself. And yet, throughout the process of cleansing his skin, he’d had the pressing awareness of the neat pile of Hawke’s clothing that sat waiting for him. Fenris always slept clothed, feeling unnecessarily exposed otherwise, but it was a different thing altogether to wear another man’s clothing to bed. Perhaps his discomfiture was only that: the tangible variation in his usual routine. Or perhaps it was the sense that he was transgressing upon Hawke’s hospitality in such an intimate way. Or perhaps it was because Hawke gave these things so freely, so easily, like there was no kindness that he wouldn’t extend, like there was nothing he wouldn’t give if Fenris asked it.

The pile of clothing sat there, inoffensive and unassuming, as Fenris regarded it with some apprehension. It was senseless, he knew that much. There was no real reason why he should feel ill at ease and no real alternative to the obvious course of action that lay before him.

Fenris glanced quickly around the room, as though there were even a remote chance that someone might inexplicably manifest in one of its corners, before hurriedly unfastening his trousers and pushing them down his legs. It was bizarre, standing entirely bare at the center of Hawke’s home with the whole of the the mage’s family in the next room over. With the heat rising unbidden to his cheeks, Fenris set about throwing on Hawke’s clothing as quickly as possible.

The result of his hasty effort was not particularly rewarding. Fenris had been aware, of course, that Hawke was a great deal taller and more broadly built than himself, but the way the other man’s clothes hung on his own frame was preposterous. The well-worn tunic Hawke had chosen for him fell nearly to Fenris’ knees and he’d had to cinch the tie at the waist of the linen pants he now wore so tightly that the fabric bunched into a thick roll. In addition to all this, he’d had to cuff the hem of the pants twice to prevent himself from tripping about like a toddler.

Still, he was reasonably decent. Dressed, at least, even if the effect was little more than a monument to Hawke’s size. Hawke would laugh at the sight of him, that much was certain.

Tentatively, Fenris shuffled across the room and eased open the bedroom door as quietly as the hinges would allow.

As promised, Hawke had arranged a tidy nest of blankets on the floor, a small pillow placed on the floorboards beside them. At the sound of the door creaking, Hawke looked up from where he had been carefully sweeping his palms over the coverlet that lay across the lowest bunk of the stacked beds. He froze, still partially stooped over, and blinked once at Fenris. “Oh,” he said softly, slowly straightening his spine until he standing at his full height. “Look at you.”

Fenris shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unbearably aware of the way Hawke’s clothes pooled on his body, the wide neck of his shirt coming perilously close to slipping off his shoulder if he made any abrupt movements. He waited for Hawke’s huff of amusement, but none came. Instead, Hawke folded his thick arms over his chest and surveyed Fenris with wide eyes that couldn’t seem to settle on any one thing.

Hawke made a ragged sound in this throat, unfolding his arms and twitching one hand towards the bed. “I know it’s not much,” he said at long last, pitching his voice low, “but I washed the sheets not _too_ long ago. It should be comfortable enough.” One of his broad hands came to the back of his neck, rubbing at it twice before dropping back to his side.

Fenris stared uncomprehendingly at the neatly made bed and then looked down at the pile of blankets on the floor. “Aren’t I…?”

“After the night you’ve had?” Hawke said, arching his brow. “What sort of healer would I be if I let my favorite patient sleep on the floor?”

Fenris smiled in spite of himself. “Not a very good one, I expect. But, you don’t have to, Hawke.”

“Yes, I do,” Hawke insisted. “And I don’t mind. I’ve slept under worse conditions.”

“As have I. I don’t mind the floor.”

“I insist.” Hawke was smiling gently, his tone firm but not forceful.

“Since you insist,” Fenris allowed, padding softly over to the bed and taking a light seat, his feet still against the floor as he sat stiffly at the edge of the mattress.

Hawke watched the process, going through that odd circuit of folding and unfolding his arms again as though they were entirely new appendages and he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with them. Fenris watched Hawke complete the circuit twice before finally giving into the urge to smirk at the absurdity of it. Hawke stilled, his fidgeting coming to a close, for the moment at least, and then shook his head, smiling almost to himself.

“Goodnight, Fenris,” he murmured, turning away and sinking down onto his makeshift bed. “Let me know if you need anything in the night,” he added, stretching out full-length and flicking a blanket over himself with a flourish.

“I’ll try not to step on you,” said Fenris quietly, trying to follow Hawke’s example and pulling his feet under the blankets of an unfamiliar bed.

Hawke let out the breath of amusement that Fenris had been anticipating. “I appreciate that. Sleep well.”

Fenris turned onto his side, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders as he looked down at the dark shape of Hawke’s hulking form nestled on the floor. “Thank you,” he said, softly enough that he almost hoped Hawke wouldn’t be able to hear him.

Hawke heard him and answered, almost as softly, “I’m glad I could help.”

“Shut. Up,” said Carver, with no attempt made at softness.

“Carver,” said Hawke at the same time as his mother.

No one said anything further.

Taking care not to shake the bed any more than necessary, Fenris rolled towards the wall and away from Hawke. His smile was hidden when he was turned this way, his face buried in Hawke’s pillow and his body wrapped in Hawke’s blankets and dressed in Hawke’s clothes, all of it smelling faintly of Hawke himself. It surrounded him, familiar and pleasant and somehow comforting. Comfort, drowning in Hawke’s scent with the even, sleepy sounds of the man’s breathing behind him.

But those were not thoughts Fenris would allow himself to examine any further. He had made enough mistakes for one day. And Hawke was one mistake he could not afford to make.

**Author's Note:**

> B is for Bandages. Runners-up for the Letter B include: BDSM, Bickering, Bondage, Bathing/Bathhouse, Breath-play, Bestiality, Blow-jobs, Blindfolds, Blood-play, Bodyswap. 
> 
> First attempt at writing a m/m ship. I dug it. Also, I just did whatever I wanted with the layout/furnishings of Gamlen’s house.


End file.
